Brother Knows Best
by Briar Elwood
Summary: Sherlock doesn't come to his brother for anything so the few times that he does, Mycroft knows something drastic must be done. Twoshot. Part one, Pre-SiP. Part two, Post-Reichenbach.
1. Chapter 1

The familiar chime of the doorbell filled the grand house and Mycroft sighed heavily. It was some ridiculous hour of the morning and there was only one person it could be. His dear, idiotic brother. Wondering what Sherlock could possibly want this time and trying to remember the last time he'd actually come face to face with the man, Mycroft placed the book he'd been engrossed in down, and shuffled to the front door.

"This couldn't possibly wait until mor-" Mycroft trailed off when he opened the door, staring at his brother in shock.

Sherlock was in his usual suit pants and button-down shirt, but they were torn, dirtied. One large tear went down the dark blue top, exposing bruised and bleeding skin. That looked like a broken rib or two, as well. His dark hair was matted with blood, the sickening red staining one whole side of the young man's face. He was hunched over, his weight all on one foot, cradling an arm, and eyes barely open. He limped over the threshold of the house, lost his footing, and fell into Mycroft's arms.

"Blast it, Sherlock," Mycroft hissed, struggling to pull the younger man back to his feet. "What happened?"

"How'm I s'pp's'd tuh...tuh have a chance...if the bloody...cr'm'n'l's gunna run me over...wiff a car..." Sherlock muttered into Mycroft's chest. Mycroft craned his neck backwards to try to give his brother another look over. Run over by a car? Dammit, how had he managed...? Mycroft shook off the questions. Now was not the time.

Mycroft shifted so he could throw Sherlock's uninjured arm over his shoulders and practically carried him to the bedroom that he kept for his brother. Sherlock let out a loud groan as Mycroft set him on the bed and Mycroft pursed his lips, watching as his brother seemed to finally relax. Then he hurried back out of the room to find a first-aid kit.

By the time Mycroft returned, Sherlock had slipped into a restless sleep. Mycroft moved as quietly as possible, sitting on the edge of the bed and opening the kit. Slowly, tenderly, he started to clean off the blood dried to Sherlock's face.

It'd been a good eight or so months since Mycroft had last been face to face with his younger brother. Yes, he kept a good eye on him, but there was only so much he could do. He'd missed this case, apparently. And it had cost Sherlock. So much so that he'd actually stooped to coming to Mycroft. That really said a lot and Mycroft's stomach twisted painfully as he realized that. This quarrel between them... It would be a lot better for both of them if they were on the same side. But that was out of the question, and Mycroft knew it.

There was only so much Mycroft could do to keep his brother safe, he realized slowly. And there was no way Sherlock would accept any more help from him than he already got. So Mycroft needed to find someone else to keep an eye, two even, on the younger man. Someone who could keep up with Sherlock. Someone Mycroft could trust. They'd have to be courageous. Moral. Brilliant. Patient. Mad. Stubborn. The probability of finding just the person was beyond slim. But they had to be out there somewhere...

As soon as Mycroft finished cleaning and bandaging Sherlock up, he slipped back out of the room and set to work to find just the person.

_A/N: __I love reviewers and live for constructive criticism!_


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft wasn't exactly focused on the book he was reading. He realized that when he noticed he'd read the same sentence five times now. He glanced at his watch. Four thirty. In the morning. He dropped the book into his lap and pushed his palms together, resting under his nose in a prayer position. Another day had passed without hearing from Sherlock. It'd been just over a year now. The younger man was supposed to be running around the globe, tracking down the rest of James Moriarty's web, one by one. Mycroft had to keep telling himself that if Sherlock had been killed, he would've heard about it.

He would've heard about it.

He would've heard about it.

He started when the doorbell chimed through the house. Mycroft looked up, staring in the direction of the front door. Then he scrambled, moving faster than he could ever remember moving, and throwing open the door.

There stood Sherlock, hunched over and supporting himself with a hand resting on the door frame. He wore jeans riddled with holes and a baggy sweatshirt that looked even worse for wear than the jeans. His hair had been bleached and cut short, making the gash on the side of Sherlock's head even more obvious. His ear seemed to be completely dyed red because of the blood spilling out of that particular wound. Luckily, however, that seemed to be the worst. One eye was swollen shut, his nose looked broken, his lower lip was split, but the gash on the head seemed to far outweigh all the other injuries.

Sherlock's lips quirked up crookedly and he blinked up at his older brother. "Hey, Mycroft," he greeted with a deep tone of false cheer. "How's it going?"

Before Mycroft could reply, Sherlock's hold on the door frame faltered and he collapsed. Mycroft caught him before he hit the ground, suddenly flashing back to the last time Sherlock had shown up on his doorstep covered in blood.

Mycroft had found John Watson after that. Manipulated things so that the army doctor and his brother would meet.

Mycroft pulled Sherlock in the house, practically dragging him to the detective's bedroom. It didn't matter if Sherlock hadn't finished his destruction of Moriarty's web, he decided. It was time for him to go back to John.

_A/N: I love reviewers and live for constructive criticism!_


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